


The Mousetrap

by chewsdaychillin



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Hamlet - Freeform, Intricate Rituals, Jealousy, M/M, Shakespeare Quotations, future jonmartin vibes, gangs all here - Freeform, jon voice: what does it mean what does it all mean, past and present jontim, present martim beginnings, pretentious flirting, sasha please sort this mess out, smart arse casanova tim stoker flirts with all the boys, we're taking turns being ophelia because gender is fake, yeah they just flirt with shakespeare basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:29:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23756905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewsdaychillin/pseuds/chewsdaychillin
Summary: 'Lady, shall I lie in your lap?''No, my lord.''I meant my head upon your lap.'Jon and Tim have very established flirting rituals from back in research that sometimes happen to include Shakespeare. No one is expecting Martin to jump in. The results are... interesting...
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker, jtmcu - Relationship
Comments: 37
Kudos: 353





	The Mousetrap

**Author's Note:**

> the boys are flirting with lines between Hamlet and Ophelia from Hamlet, act three, scene two where the players put on 'the murder of gonzago' or 'the mousetrap'. 
> 
> here is the text alongside a modern english 'translation': https://www.sparknotes.com/nofear/shakespeare/hamlet/page_158/
> 
> here is kenneth brannagh and kate winslet's version of the scene: https://youtu.be/mtzpH5edcx4?t=89 (and) https://youtu.be/LuTmUZtypqw?t=34

Friday afternoon is Tim’s prime flirt hour. 

They would always end up staying late on Fridays back in research, since Jon had nowhere better to be and Tim would stay with him, telling jokes and badgering him until he eventually gave in and took himself home. Once or twice took both of them home, hands tousled together on the tube. It was always an end of the week thing. That way they could ignore it over the weekend and start the game again on Monday with shirts buttoned all the way up. 

Now it’s almost routine. The clock goes four which gives them about an hour until the others start to think about packing up. Gives Tim an hour to lay it on thick. 

The clock goes four: Sasha leaves for her final Friday run to the library and Martin puts the kettle on. 

Like clockwork Tim is up from his desk, wondering round the assistants’ office, lazily playing with pen pots. He glances all around round, piteously bored, shooting looks through the doorway to Jon’s office and blowing out attention seeking sighs. 

Jon doesn’t give in to the bait. Even when Tim comes to hover in his doorway. He never does, initially. It’s always been part of the game. But this is only their first month downstairs and, though it is Friday, he’s still going to be professional. 

They’ve turned over a new leaf, he’d decided. He’s Tim’s boss now. If nothing else it would probably be unethical. Certainly against some kind of rule he doesn’t want to break. Research was one thing, but now he’s been handpicked and promoted,  _ trusted _ , above others he knows have been here longer... The filing system’s a mess and he knows, won’t admit but knows, that he’s in over his head. He wants to stay. He feels eyes being kept on him. 

Tim doesn’t seem to share these anxieties, or seem to much mind being rebuffed every Friday so far. He’s always loved the long game.

He flops onto the corner of Jon’s desk, ignoring a long-suffering sigh, and starts fiddling with papers. 

‘Lady, shall I lie in your lap?’ Tim asks, and Jon rolls his eyes to the ceiling. 

The Shakespeare is a bit of a tradition. Tim likes to quote things at him - throw him lines like a test - and Jon likes beating him; likes remembering more than he does and reciting as much of it as Tim will stand before kissing him quiet. Being clever gets them both off, if they’re being honest. Something about the surety of it. 

But they probably shouldn’t do that anymore. Definitely shouldn’t, not in his new office. His name is still drying on the door. 

Jon is going to simply say ‘No’, since his prim protestations are usually part of the procedure and a genuinely firm refusal needs to be separated from the game. But his memory and his mouth, and probably something else, the memory of  _ Tim’s _ mouth, are working against him. He tacks ‘my lord’ on the end before he can stop himself. 

He can hear Tim grinning, sensing the start of their wordless wager, and the part of him he’s ignoring is thrilled. Tim ducks his head down, trying to catch Jon’s eyeline. 

'I mean my head upon your lap,’ he clarifies, swinging his legs against the desk. 

Jon raises an eyebrow at him that was going to be exasperated.  _ Is _ exasperated, he could swear. But when he looks up Tim’s quirked, smiling mouth he knows he’s going that annoying shade of pink Tim always takes as a compliment. 

‘Ay, my lord,’ he says, continuing to underline the important parts of his very important work with deliberate scratches. 

Tim shuffles his arms back, lowering himself languidly over the desk, before clutching dramatically at his invisible pearls, ‘Did you think I meant country matters?’ 

Jon clicks his pen loudly and puts it down on the desk. He folds his arms and stares back up at Tim, trying to match the firm steadiness of his gaze. 

‘I think nothing,’ he tells him. He doesn’t say  _ ‘my lord _ ’ this time, a little done with Tim having the upper hand and wanting to claw back some ground. 

It’s a plucky but doomed attempt, he realises, as Tim grins his smug Romeo grin and it dawns on him what comes next. 

Tim leans in and drags a finger over his jaw, starting right from his ear and curling it under his chin. 

‘That’s a fair thought to lie between maids’ legs,’ Tim breathes, and he’s teasing, he’s always teasing, but he bites his lip like he’s thinking about it. 

Jon very resolutely doesn’t look when Tim’s thumb comes to rest just below his bottom lip. He stares right into Tim’s eyes, watches as they move, achingly slowly, downwards. He’d swear he’s not counting but they stay there a good second longer than necessary to make their point before coming very slowly back up. 

He doesn’t ask the question, just breathes out into the space between them, trying to think professional thoughts. He’s not very successful at it, eyes betraying him by drifting downwards. 

They both half laugh, breathlessly, at the same time. Tim hums a smug, happy hum and waggles Jon’s chin back and forth. His childishness is annoyingly charming. But - 

‘Line anyone?’ Tim asks, far too loudly over his shoulder. 

And the moment is dropped instantly, like a hot plate, with the reminder of their being  _ other people.  _ Jon lifts his chin away with an exasperated huff. 

‘Oh, come on,’ Tim whines, ‘let me do the joke.’ 

‘I should be working,’ Jon tells him, picking his pen back up and clicking it decidedly. He tries to put some authority into his voice but it just comes out like bite. ‘ _ You  _ should be working.’ 

Tim clicks his pen off again, still playing. ‘Will do, boss, just one thing-’ 

‘Tim-’ 

‘So you say ‘what is, my lord?’...’ 

‘Nothing,’ says a voice from the doorway. 

They both look over to see Martin hovering, shuffling on the threshold, steaming mug in hand. 

There’s a stunned silence for a second, before Tim jumps up off Jon’s desk, clapping his hands together with glee. 

‘Martin!’ He cries, like it’s the nicest surprise on Christmas morning. ‘You’ve saved my scene!’ he says with something like pride. 

Jon knows it’s snobbish of him to be equally surprised that Martin knows his Shakespeare. It’s not as if  _ Hamlet _ is beyond the capabilities of an ex-polytechnic curriculum. But he is a bit. Surprised. Pleasantly, though. Even more so at Martin joining in. He usually sort of stands on the wall, or hides in the kitchenette. It would make Jon smile a bit, probably, if it hadn’t interrupted something. The instant swell of pleasantness is quickly muddied by a dark and dusty mix of mortification, guilt, and something small and definitely haughty. 

The two of them are laughing now as Tim throws an arm round Martin's shoulders and leads him back into their shared part of the office. 

‘You are merry, my lord,’ Jon hears Martin telling Tim with fond amusement. His breath is a bit shorter than it normally is during his tea break. 

‘Who,’ Tim is gasping, scandalised at the idea, ‘I?’

Martin chuckles and from where Jon is sitting it looks like his hand is on Tim’s chest, holding him at a playful arms distance. 

‘Ay, my lord.’

Something about their easy smiles, the quick back and forth of it, free of conflict but somehow alive with tension, is magnetic. Or maybe Jon just needs to see how it goes. Or maybe he’s jealous - Tim always seemed to get along with everyone. This is the most he’s seen Martin smile in the office. Jon’s not sure he’s ever even heard him laugh properly before. 

He gets up from the desk and stalks over to the doorway, arms still crossed, to watch them. 

‘Marry!’ Tim is exclaiming, following close on Martin’s heels as he heads for his desk, carefully cradling his mug. Martin yelps and bats Tim’s hands away as they poke and tickle at his shoulder, arm, chest. Tim chuckles and tries again, reminding him that ‘it means mischief!’

‘Is this a prologue,’ Jon cuts in sharply, ‘or the posy of a ring?’ 

They stop laughing. Martin sits down and pulls a folder of papers towards him. Tim watches him, the awkward and flustered way he fumbles for a pen, and turns to Jon with a long suffering frown. 

‘’Tis brief, my lord,’ he says pointedly, with a wave of his hand that says ‘ _ why do you ruin everything?’  _

‘As woman’s love,’ Jon retorts, surprised at how easily something like resentment comes up his throat. 

Tim scoffs and looks about to snap back, but Martin gets there before him, looking back up with a steading sigh. He quotes a line from later, one he’s drawn from his memory without a cue, and it has something that almost sounds like his own bravado in Ophelia’s scolding. 

‘You are as good as a chorus, my lord.’ 

He’s looking at Jon when he says it, and though he drops his gaze again quickly afterwards, as he always does, for the whole line he holds them steady. It’s a bit telling, a bit chiding. It’s the most impressive he’s sounded since saying ‘ _ hello _ ’ that first day. 

Tim seems to have noticed the same thing. He’s been leaning over with one hand on Martin’s desk but now shifts his weight, adds the second. His jaw is somewhat slack, and the part of his lips looks like more than just surprise. Something primal in Jon’s navel growls with hope that he’s made that last part up, but he knows what Tim’s face looks like when it’s impressed by prose. 

He scoffs, shakes his head to clear it, looks at Martin to avoid looking at Tim. His cheeks feel pinched and he knows it's making him scowl. It fries him with irritation and he quotes the snide reply. If he lets some of that bite he’d directed at Tim colour it as his eyes flit between them, it’s only to maintain authority. 

‘I could interpret between you and your love if I could see the puppets dallying.’ 

He’d never thought too much about the line before, but looking at the two of his assistants, crowded round one desk in a mirror image of his past, one where his role is played by someone fun and gentle and not at all uptight, he hears the implications. Hates them viciously in a way that he doesn’t like to analyse. 

Tim groans at his tone, turns it to a bitter, exasperated laugh. Martin seems to join in to cover up the awkwardness. His ears are a deep beetroot at the very idea of it, of him and Tim  _ dallying,  _ or perhaps at having something pointed out what he’s been trying to hide? He suspects nothing, on Tim’s end clearly. He doesn’t know Tim well enough yet to know that laughing at the idea you could ever be a couple is very much part of Tim’s program of events.

He looks at Tim as he laughs along and Tim’s eyes don’t leave his face either. He hasn’t taken them off Martin for a good minute, or maybe even longer. They have the sparkle he gets from winding someone up, the puppy-dog fullness he gets when he wants to make someone feel better. Jon scowls at them as he waits for them to get on with their flirting and retort. Their ten seconds of fun feels like forever.

‘You are keen, my lord,’ Martin tells him, eyes going from Jon’s frown to Tim’s grin and back again. ‘You are keen.’ 

He sounds like he means the real meaning - sharp, pointed. Wounding. He has Ophelia’s embarrassed pink spreading over his freckles. Ridiculous really - he jumped into this himself, he should have been prepared to take the barbs. Ridiculous for a thirty-two year old man to have so many freckles in the autumn. Jon’s never seen anything like it. 

‘It would cost-’ Jon starts, but as the memory of the rest of the line catches up with him he stops it dead in his throat. Mouth snapped shut, tongue pressed firm against the back of his teeth, he watches Tim finish the line for him. 

‘Would cost you a groaning to take off mine edge,’ Tim says, low and throaty. 

He has his forearms down on Martin’s desk now. All the breath is stolen from the air. For a few long seconds. 

Martin breathes out shakily. His eyes are on Tim’s mouth. 

‘Still better and worse,’ he says, in a quiet voice that makes heat crawl up the back of Jon’s neck in a different way than it does when Tim throws lines at  _ him.  _

Jon doesn’t care to think too much about what that might mean. The hot flush is speckling over his nose and cheeks but he can’t look away from them. They don’t seem to notice. Tim is looking at Martin with the same heaviness in his eyes that he used to have looking at Jon very late on some Fridays. 

Is he..? He’s not jealous. He’s not. He’s been trying to let Tim down easy and Martin... He’s never really looked twice at Martin. Except when he’s dropping things or asking if anyone needs anything from the shop or stammering through telling them about his weekend. 

He hasn’t stammered once through his lines. 

‘What’s all this then?’ Sasha demands with a roll of her eyes as she comes back in with a stack of books. 

They all sit up a bit straighter, looking to the floor and stretching away from each other. The spell broken. 

‘Nothing, Sash, just a bit of fun - ’ Tim promises at the same time as Jon and Martin both say - 

‘The Mousetrap.’ 

Their eyes meet across the desks, smiling with amusement. With recognition. For a second they huff their laughs just to each other. The feeling, whatever it was, that he refuses to name as jealousy is gone in a faint peachy glow. 

Then Martin glances away, ducks his head when he notices the others looking at him. He pulls his open folder back towards him and Jon follows suit. Work he understands, far better than the now-pleasant warmth at the base of his throat. 

He coughs to clear it and hears Tim snigger. The same fond, entertained laugh Jon’s heard in his direction when, not many months ago, they’d been matching words themselves in the library. 

‘What?’ He snaps.

‘Nothing,’ Tim grins. 

‘Yes, well, back to work.’ 

‘Probably a good idea,’ Sasha chuckles, as Jon turns back to his office. 

’The lady doth protest too much, methinks,’ Tim calls after him, voice brimming with teasing. 

Jon closes the door loudly and resolutely does not think about any of them. 

**Author's Note:**

> well then........ thanks for reading !! thanks to @lesbian-moon for trading me this for art of tim stoker shirtless lmao. and creds to my main man will - who'd have thought your words would end up in the jtmcu....
> 
> find me @babyyodablackwood on tumblr n come yell about any combo of these lads with me x


End file.
